


The Journal

by frek



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:28:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frek/pseuds/frek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock hadn't told John, but he had kept a sort of journal while he had spent his time away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Journal

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place Post-Reichenbach, but also post-reunion. They're back to living together at Baker Street, though John's still coming to terms with all that Sherlock has done.

Sherlock hadn't told John, but he had kept a sort of journal while he had spent his time away. Full of updates about what he was doing. Sentiments that he wanted to burn as soon as they were written, but chose not to. Apologies that he wasn't sure he would ever get to tell. 

For the longest time he wasn't sure when he was going to see John again, if he was ever going to see him. While he was working, he had the fear that he had missed something, that someone out there would take John from him before he could get to them first. It was relief he felt when he learned that he had found every last one of the men Moriarty had sided with. The dread disappeared altogether once that man had been taken care of. 

When Sherlock moved back in with John, their reunion a tear-filled emotional moment in Sherlock's otherwise emotion-free life, he brought the journal back with him. It was tucked inside his bag, beside a well-worn bathrobe and two suits. The journal itself was just as worn, the front cover was creased and torn, held together with tape and rubber bands. He had written in it often, reread some passages almost as much.

Now that he was back at Baker Street, back with John, his old life slowly returning, Sherlock wasn't quite certain where the journal fit into it. It was a remnant of his past now, a record of the three years he spent in hiding, saving his friend's life, sorting out the emotional attachment he had to him. A part of Sherlock wanted the journal burnt, destroyed, hidden and removed away from the prying eyes of anyone who would go looking for this. It wasn't like Sherlock needed the journal to remember what had happened. He remembered every minute of it, every second of separation seared into his psyche. The part of him that understood that wanted to share the journal with John, to show him just what he had gone through, what had gone through his mind. Sherlock was usually able to silence this part. He wasn't sure why, but he didn't want John to know these things. He wondered if maybe John would look at him differently if he knew just how much he had done, how much he had cared. He wondered if that look would be a good thing. Or if it would be his undoing.

\- - -

John found the journal one night about a week after Sherlock came home. He had found Sherlock's bag still laying on his bed, unopened, and thought to empty it out and help Sherlock to settle back into life at Baker Street. He opened the bag and pulled out two three piece suits, both having seen better days. Next was a tattered maroon bathrobe, one that looked like Sherlock had practically lived in these past three years. There were some toiletries, a toothbrush, a razor, and some aftershave. And underneath all that rested a worn, well used, journal.

John hadn't seen this journal before Sherlock had leapt to his apparent death. It was new, well to him, it obviously wasn't in a new state. John put the bag away, resting the journal on Sherlock's desk, his gaze continually falling back on the journal as he straightened up Sherlock's belongings. It was like a puzzle to him. The journal was obviously well used, probably for the most part of his time away. But it wasn't like Sherlock to keep a journal. He had a memory unlike anyone John had met before. He could remember the most minute detail of the most minute thing and tell you what day and time he had seen it on. He didn't need a journal to remember things like ordinary people. Because Sherlock was anything but ordinary.

John tried to ignore the journal, though it was difficult. He left the room, closed the door and went out into the flat, intent on straightening up for the first time in a long time. He washed the sinkful of dishes, his mind decidedly not on the task at hand. _What was in that journal?_ The question kept nagging at him, digging at his mind, begging for an answer. He brushed away the question and picked up the few articles of clothing strewn out in the common area. Of course they were Sherlock's clothes. And of course John found his way back into Sherlock's room, laying the clothing out on the bed for Sherlock to sort out.

On his way out the door, his eyes caught the cover of the journal once again. The front cover was torn near the spine, almost completely off, but it was held on with sellotape. The pages were soft around the edges, like the journal had been thumbed through many times, carried often and used just as much. The spine broken in several places, probably with the pressure of holding it open to write or folding the pages back to read. To keep it's shape, Sherlock had wrapped a rubber band around the journal, keeping everything together and in one piece.

John glanced out the door of Sherlock's room, down the hall. The flat was empty. Sherlock was meeting with Lestrade, he had left while John was at the hospital and hadn't returned yet. He had the flat to himself and Sherlock would never know he had read the journal. At least, he didn't think Sherlock would know.

John stood in front of the desk, chewing on his bottom lip, arguing with himself. Reading the journal would be an invasion of privacy, it was for Sherlock and Sherlock only. If he wanted John to read it, he'd give it to him or ask him. But then again, it was unlikely Sherlock wrote the journal for himself to start with, so what harm would it be to read a few pages? John was the closest person to Sherlock, after all, what better a candidate for this.

John sighed, reaching out and picking the journal up again, his fingers brushing over the soft edges of the pages, the creases over the spine. It was definitely used often over the past few years. He pulled off the rubber bands, letting them fall to the desktop, before thumbing open the journal to the first page. His eyes scanned the page, the small cramped handwriting instantly familiar to him. He had seen Sherlock's handwriting so many times before, he would be able to recognize it anywhere.

_I saw him today at my gravestone. The pain in his face was the most difficult thing for me to watch. I could see the tears, hear the hurt in his voice. He begged me to come back to him. I watched him plead, but there was nothing I could do. I couldn't tell him what had happened, what I had done. I had given him the only hint I could when I called him the day I jumped. I had hoped he would think about our conversation, remember my words. I hope he still does. I can't bear to know that I caused him so much pain._

John dropped the journal on the desk, the thud loud in the quiet room. He didn't know what he had expected, but it wasn't that. He hadn't realized that Sherlock was there that day in the graveyard, watching him as he broke down before the gravestone. John swiped at his eyes, the tears stinging as he remembered the feelings that had welled up inside him that day, the eternal ache in his chest that felt like it was going to tear him apart. He hadn't known how he was going to get through that moment, let alone the next three years of his life. Yet somehow, here he was, the pain of the moment a memory, though not as distant as he would have liked it to be.

John glanced back down at the journal now laying open on the desk. He picked it up to the page it was turned to, only a few pages back from the one he had just read. It couldn't have been written long after John had thought Sherlock dead.

_He had three assassins working for him. I don't know if there are any more ready to take over if one of them is taken out. I'm still trying to follow the trail he left me, the trail that's quickly fading the longer I take to follow it. I know where one of the men is living. He's waiting for me to slip up, to let it be known that I'm alive. He was the one who was trained on John that day. He's the one I have to make sure is taken care of. I worry, though, that if I take him out, will the others follow the orders left for him? Will they go after John? Will everything I do here be in vain? There's much research left to do. I don't know how much longer it will take. It already feels like I've been gone for much too long._

John flipped idly through the pages of the journal, his stomach suddenly in knots. He was starting to understand just what Sherlock had undertaken when he had jumped. More than John had thought possible. It overwhelmed John, upset him. He would have helped Sherlock if he had just told him what he could do. But perhaps Sherlock understood the situation better than John did, does. He probably knew more than he would let on, possibly more than he would put in this book. 

John flipped through a few pages, his eyes scanning the pages, until he came to a date several months into Sherlock's death. The writing was even more hasty than before. John wondered what the circumstances were that had caused Sherlock to write so quickly, what he feared.

_I've cornered one of the three. It's not the one trained on John, though. I'm afraid that I may have given up my position by doing so. Afraid that John is in danger. He's taken care of now, out of the picture. If my research is correct then the others won't realize he's gone. And if they do, hopefully it won't be until after I have them cornered as well. He didn't appear to keep in contact with them at all since their leader had taken his own life. With this man out, I can communicate with Lestrade, let him know some of what has been happening. Have him check in on John. Keep him safe. I have to move now, though. I don't know how much they know about my position, if they know at all at this point._

John looked up from the book, his eyes glancing out the door and down the hall. Sherlock still wasn't home, but somehow it felt like he was there with him. He had had that feeling often over the course of the past three years. He wondered just how often that feeling was valid. All the visits Lestrade had made, the phone calls. Checking in on him, always looking out the windows. Always searching, his eyes looking at window after window, scanning rooftops. John had thought the man was just becoming paranoid with Sherlock gone. He hadn't even thought that everything was because of Sherlock. Because Sherlock asked him to.

John carried the journal over to Sherlock's bed, sitting on the edge of it with the book open in his hands. There was an entry about halfway through the book, the pages wrinkled, half torn, like Sherlock was going to tear them out but had decided against it.

_I'm beginning to suspect that I may never isolate the last assassin. He's moved several times since I had started tracking him. Always circling around John, though. Always close enough that he can hurt him within a moment's notice. It's been almost two years now since that day on the roof. Two years of searching, of trying, of doing everything in my power to ensure the safety of the person I hold most dear. The feeling of dread that fills my body whenever I think of failing is something unfamiliar to me. I don't like it. Particularly when it takes me by surprise, pulling me out of a dead sleep, waking me with my heart racing, my voice ringing out into the dark night of my room. I've never felt fear like this before. I don't know how to handle it. In this case my inexperience will likely be my undoing. If I never make it back, my only hope is that he somehow finds this journal. I want him to understand just what I had done to save him._

John closed the journal then, setting it beside him on the comforter of the bed. He understood then why Sherlock had written the journal. It was for him. Everything. The three years of isolation, three years of pain and heartache, three years of words filling this small book. It was all for him. John didn't know how to handle this knowledge. He knew what Sherlock had told him, but he hadn't realized just how far Sherlock had gone. What he had gone through. It was disorienting, this knowledge. He felt small, too small to handle the enormity of it all.

John wasn't sure how long he sat on the bed, his hand resting on the pages of the journal beside him, his gaze focused on the wall, an old calendar posted from three years prior. The date of Sherlock's death called to him and he focused on it, the numbers blurring until they weren't there any more, the calendar was gone, the wall just a dark space before him stretching into infinity.

And then, something happened. A heavy weight was wrapped around his shoulders, the bed dipping beside him. The wall started to come into focus once more, the dark patterned wallpaper behind the stark white calendar, the dark numbers of the date once more staring back at John. John felt the weight beside him shift, something reached across his lap, pulling the journal out from under his palm. A voice, familiar and warm, spoke from that same direction.

"You know it's considered impolite to read other people's private journals."

John swallowed down the lump that had long ago formed in his throat, his mouth feeling dry, like he hadn't had a drink in months. He turned his gaze to see Sherlock beside him, his own pale eyes moving over the pages of the book as he held it open before him with his free hand. John cleared his throat, wondering if he was even going to be able to speak.

"You wrote that for me?"

His voice sounded small, smaller than he had felt. He wanted to tear himself down, he couldn't have sounded more pathetic to his own ears. Sherlock, though, didn't appear to believe so. He closed the book for a moment and turned back to John, looking into his face, compassion filling his features. And when did Sherlock learn that? John felt like he was in a whole other dimension. This wasn't his life, it couldn't be.

"I had intended this for you, yes," Sherlock's voice was calm, collected. He didn't sound upset at all and John couldn't understand why. He had read his journal, without so much as a 'may I?' "I wrote it for the possibility that all that I had done would end in my death. My real death."

Sherlock removed his arm from John, leaving his back feeling bare and cold. His fingers filed through the pages of the journal, until he found the one he was looking for. It was only a few pages from the end, but it was the last entry in the book. "Here," Sherlock said, offering the journal to John. "Read this page."

John took the journal from Sherlock's hands, his own hands shaking with nerves. He didn't know what he was about to read. But it was obviously important to Sherlock. And if that was the case, then he knew that he needed to know what it said. John looked down at the pages, his vision blurring for a moment where tears still clung to his eyes. He blinked them back and was able to see that familiar cramped handwriting once again. He began to read.

_The last of the assassins is gone. I managed to finally close in on him yesterday. John is no longer in any danger and I can finally reveal the truth of my death to him. It's been almost three long years, the longest of my life. And while I suffered every day of it with the uncertainty of knowing if I'll ever see John again, be able to tell him all that I've done, all that I feel. I know he suffered more. Molly and Lestrade told me that he believes me to be dead, that he has given up on the possibility, that he may have never believed in that possibility at all. I've never known what people meant when they said that their heart ached for someone. I do now. I feel a certain constriction in my chest, making it difficult to breathe, when I think about what I have done to him, what I had put him through. It was never my intention for John to be hurt, I only wanted to let him live. As selfish as it seems, I know I would have never been able to live without him in my life, not after all we had gone through together. I feel very unlike myself writing out these feelings, these thoughts. These are things that I would have never said before I met John. I would have never believed it possible to have these feelings. But they are there, present in every breath I take, every choice I've made for the past three years. Tomorrow I'm going to contact John. I'm going to tell him what has happened, I'm going to tell him it all. My only fear now is that he won't accept me back into his life after all this time. That fear is the only thing keeping me from knocking on his door right now._

John closed the journal, dropping it onto the bed beside him. He was pretty certain he didn't feel any better than he had earlier, but he understood now. He understood the pain in Sherlock's voice when he had contacted him and he had tried to lash out at him, push him away. John had wanted to avoid any more heartbreak, and hearing Sherlock's voice again after three years was the worst sort of torture. Then the way Sherlock held him when he had opened the door to him, like he was never going to let him go, like he had been waiting three years to do just that. John knew after reading the journal that that was exactly the truth of the matter. Sherlock had worked relentlessly for three years to save his life so that he would be there when he came home. And so he could explain to him just what he had meant to him.

John wasn't sure how long he sat there after reading that final passage. Only that after the book left his hands, Sherlock's arm was once more around his shoulder, this time pulling him close to his body in a comforting gesture that three years ago John wouldn't have believed Sherlock capable. John allowed himself to be pulled against Sherlock. He curled in on himself, resting his head against Sherlock's chest, the tears that came to his eyes, rolling silently down his cheeks, soaking into Sherlock's shirt. But Sherlock didn't say anything, simply held him there until John felt like he was ready to let go, to stand on his own again.

"Thank you," John said, his voice a hoarse whisper. He looked up into Sherlock's face as he moved away, the pair standing up together.

"Of course," Sherlock replied, John noticing the way his eyes shone, though no tears spilled over. "You would have done the same for me, John."

John nodded, but he knew better. He would have wanted to. But nobody could have done what Sherlock had done for him. Because nobody else was Sherlock Holmes.

End.


End file.
